


The Marigold Bridge

by Calworks



Series: Daily Drabble [4]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Because this takes place before and after Mamá Coco dies, Gen, Have some Medium!Miguel, Medium AU, Not this time anyway, Warning is for, You've seen this before, but not like this, canon character death, don't worry I'm not going to kill off Miguel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:32:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calworks/pseuds/Calworks
Summary: Prompt: "Crossing the Marigold Bridge" from CocoMiguel can See the dead. It's not a huge deal; he’s met lots of dead at this point. Miguel can See the marigold bridge. That's a bigger deal; just looking at it makes him remember how it felt when his heart stopped beating in his chest.





	1. Seeing the Marigold Bridge

_(read on[tumblr](https://calworks.tumblr.com/post/176611796521/the-marigold-bridge-ch-1) and [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13023733/1/The-Marigold-Bridge))_

Miguel doesn’t like to go near the bridge.

The first time he sees it after Día de los Muertos, he needs to grab his mother’s hand to steady himself. He ignores the shudder that grips his nerves, focusing instead on repeating fervently, _it’s okay, I’m okay, I’m still alive, I’m holding her hand, I’m not cursed again._ He doesn’t feel better until they’re home and he has given everyone in his family a great, big hug, to assure himself he can.

The next time he sees it, shimmering in and out of view as it arches out of the graveyard, he stumbles to a stop.

At the bridge’s base…a group of skeletons. It isn’t Día de los Muertos. They shouldn’t be there.

Then, he looks closer and realizes he recognizes them. They’re a family—a mamá, a papá, a teenaged daughter, and a little boy—who died just recently. The parents are looking at the bridge uncertainly as they discuss something in low tones and the boy clings to his mother. The daughter hugs herself tightly, as if she fears her bones will come apart. All of their faces bear patterns of blue petals across their jaws and cheekbones.

Miguel drifts closer despite himself. “Uh…disculpe, Señor? Señora?”

The parents don’t seem to hear him, but the girl starts to look up only to check herself with a shudder. Miguel focuses on her; he recognizes her as someone his Primo Abel once had a crush on. What was her name?

“Hey, are you alright?” He draws closer still. The bright glow of the bridge is disorienting—it washes over him, drawing strange shadows on his skin, but doesn’t seem to touch the family. “Can you hear me?” _Name, name…_ “You’re…Regina, right?”

The whole family looks up suddenly, startled, and Miguel stumbles back a pace. “Uh…hi.”

“Miguel Rivera?” Regina’s papá looks stunned. “You can see us?”

“I guess so.” Miguel shrugs.

“You’re… But… How are you so calm?” Regina demands. “We’re dead!”

“Well…yeah.” Miguel rubs his arm. “I’m sorry about that. And also for missing your funeral. Abuelita wouldn’t let any of us go because of…well, you know.” The Riveras aren’t famous for just shoes, after all.

Regina’s mamá eyes him consideringly. “Miguel, maybe you can help us; we need directions.”

“To where?” Miguel asks at the same time as her husband says, “How is he supposed to know? He’s living!”

“Niño, you know where this bridge goes, right?” Regina’s mamá persists.

“Yeah, to the Land of the Dead.” _Was that a trick question?_  “Is that where you’re trying to go?”

“Sí, but we don’t know the way.”

“Oh, okay!” Miguel grins, relieved to be asked a question he can answer. “All you have to do is cross this bridge. When you get to the end, there’ll be a big building with a bunch of gates and people in blue uniforms who can tell you where to go; they’ll help you find your family and stuff.”

“Have you been there?”

It’s the first time the little boy has spoken; he clings to his mother’s skirt and sneaks a wide-eyed look at the huge bridge.

Miguel crouches down and smiles at him gently. “Sí, I have! It’s not scary, I promise. It’s amazing! The whole city is all lit up; it looks like a dream!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

Miguel glances up at the adults and finds them staring at him, eyes wide. He quickly stands up and backs away, grinning nervously.

“Uh…so, yeah. Just…cross this bridge, and you’ll be fine. That’s it.”

“…Thank you.” The man says it slowly, as if he’s not sure he means it.

“Are you telling the truth?” Regina asks bluntly. “You’ve been to the Land of the Dead?”

“Sí, it’s true. You can ask anyone there.” Miguel shuffles awkwardly. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, we’re fine,” Regina’s papá says quickly before anyone in his family can prolong the conversation. “Muchas gracias, Miguel.”

As they turn to leave, a thought finally occurs to Miguel. “Oh! Perdon, if you meet any Riveras, can you tell them ‘thank you’ for me?”

“Sí, of course.” Regina’s mamá’s smile is warm and understanding; Miguel’s not sure what she thinks she knows. “Anything else?”

Regina’s papá passes through the barrier and the orange glow falls away from his bones.

“Just that I’m okay, Mamá Coco’s okay—the whole family is fine.”

Regina hesitates, but follows suit.

“Sí, I’ll remember. Cuídese, Miguel.”

The little boy sees the way the barrier distorts the air and shies away with an uncertain sound.

“It’s okay,” Miguel assures him with a smile. “It’s safe.”

As the little boy and his mamá pass through and the family starts their journey, Miguel’s smile falls away despite his words. He turns his back on the bridge, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

Without the family to distract him, the bridge is too close—much too close.

He walks home quickly and hides out in Mamá Coco’s room for the entire evening.

As the weeks following Día de los Muertos turn into months, it becomes almost a routine. He meets the dead everywhere, in the most random of places—from the plaza to the market to right outside the shoe shop—and he does his best to help them, whether they need directions or comfort. Many of them, he personally leads to the bridge.

He grows to think of it as a duty of sorts—he’s a guide, to make sure no soul gets lost before they make it home to their family.

However, he only ever goes as far as the bridge. There, he stands back, gives the dead their final instructions and, sometimes, a message for his family. Then, unable to watch them disappear over the bridge, he turns away and leaves immediately.

He’s not entirely sure why he does it. The bridge isn’t scary—it’s beautiful, glowing like a sunset, lighting up under skeletal feet like magic. Every time he sees it, part of him wants to see if it still supports his weight—if he could maybe go see his family again, see if Héctor’s okay—

He shudders and wraps his arms around himself. Part of him wants to cross, but most of him feels hollow and very aware of how close he once came to disappearing entirely.

He can’t shake the irrational feeling that stepping onto the bridge would mean disappearing again.

 lll

Just a few months after Día de los Muertos, Mamá Coco dies.

 


	2. On the Other Side

_(read on[tumblr](https://calworks.tumblr.com/post/176680801831/the-marigold-bridge-ch-2) or [ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13023733/2/The-Marigold-Bridge))_

“Lo siento, Señor, do you have a moment?”

Héctor looks up from his song to see a woman in fairly modern clothing approaching. With a flourish, he finishes the phrase on his guitar and leans forward, smile already in place.

“Of course, of course! What can I do for you?”

The warm light of the streetlamps reflects off of her bones as she shifts hesitantly—pristine and white, clearly either a fairly recent arrival or a huge celebrity.

“I think I’m lost; can you give me directions to the Rivera zapatería?”

“Ah, sí, you have come to the right place!” Héctor sets his guitar aside and bounces to his feet, the better to flail his arms under the guise of pointing the way. “I live there!”

“You— _what?!”_

The woman actually steps away from him in shock; it’s only as her eyes drop to his guitar that he realizes why she’s reacting so dramatically. _Ah, so she’s a recent arrival, then._

“Is something wrong?”

Her shock fades as she picks up on his awkwardness, and she steps forward as she apologizes, “Lo siento, it’s just… I thought…”

“No es nada, it’s okay—it’s a recent arrangement.”

“I lived in Santa Cecilia,” she explains unnecessarily. “The Rivera music ban is legendary. The only Rivera I’ve ever seen enjoy music is… Lo siento, I’m getting distracted.”

“No, no, what were you going to say?” Héctor refrains from grabbing her arms when she cuts off her story, but only just. “One thing everyone in the Land of the Dead knows—family news is better than gold!”

The petals on the woman’s forehead reflect the lamplight as her eyebrows rise in understanding. “You are a Rivera, then! Muy bien—I can just give Miguel’s message to you, then!”

Héctor reels back, stunned—he almost falls over the wall he was sitting on earlier. “Wh—what about Miguel?”

“He showed my family the way to the Land of the Dead,” the woman explained, smiling warmly. “He helped us when we were lost; all he wanted in return was for me to carry a message to his family.”

“Wait, wait wait, wait—wait.” Héctor can’t quite make it make sense in his head. “He—so this was _after_ you died?”

“Sí.”

“You’re sure he’s still alive.”

 _“Sí,_ Señor, he’s alive.”

“Lo siento, I just… What did he say?”

“He said to tell you ‘Thank you,’ and he wants you to know that he’s okay, his Mamá Coco is okay—the whole family is fine.”

Something in Héctor’s chest—perhaps his memory of a heart—warms at the woman’s words. “Ah, that kid…”

“He’s a sweetheart,” the woman agrees.

“Muchas gracias for the message, Señora.”

As she turns away, he suddenly remembers—“Wait! What were you going to say before, about the ‘only Rivera you’ve seen enjoy music’? That’s Miguel, right?”

She just looks at him for a moment, considering. “Sí, how did you know?”

Héctor sits back on the wall and pats the stone next to him. “Can you tell me about him? A free pair of shoes in exchange for news of mi familia?”

She laughs and obligingly takes a seat. “A free pair of Rivera shoes? Just for news?”

“Like I said earlier—worth more than gold.”

“Okay, okay. Well, the boy’s the town’s worst-kept secret, you know? Everyone knows how much he loves music, but we also take the…the ban seriously.” She looked across Héctor at his guitar, questioning, but continues: “Everyone knows that it’s a matter of life and death that no one in his family know how bad he has it for music. Though…”

Her expression grows distant. “Actually, now that I think about it… When I talked to Miguel last, he…might’ve had a guitar on his back. How did I miss that?”

Héctor, accustomed already to the way memory slips and fades between a skeleton’s metacarpals, ignores her crisis in favor of crowing, “A guitar, really? That boy!”

She blinks, coming back to herself, and self-consciously smooths down her blue skirt. “Sí, a white one.”

“A… _what?_ ”

“I think…I wasn’t paying attention, but it looked a lot like Ernesto de la Cruz’s famous guitar.”

“That boy,” Héctor repeats in awe. “How did he… No matter; do you know anything about his Mamá Coco?”

lll

Over the months, the Riveras learn to recognize when someone has come bearing a message.

No matter who it is, they walk with uncertain steps—their bones gleam with the glowing white of the newly dead, their clothes are fairly modern, and their eyes immediately seek out people instead of shoes.

“Are you the Riveras?” they ask, and whoever is on duty in the shop replies immediately, excitedly, “What did Miguel say?!”

Sometimes, it’s a simple “We’re okay, I miss you.”

Sometimes, it’s actual news—that Miguel’s mother is going to have a little girl soon, that Miguel can play music openly now, that he’s started learning to make shoes, that he and Mamá Coco sing “Remember Me” every night, that Rosa is learning the violin.

Frankly, the Riveras don’t know what to do about it. They love the constant stream of news—they love hearing from their boy, knowing that he’s happy, that the family is doing well. They treasure every word he sends across, but—is he really okay? They discuss in quiet, concerned tones what could possibly cause Miguel to continue to see the dead, if it might hurt him somehow, if it’s something that needs to be fixed—is there something they should do about it? Anything they _can_ do about it?

One day, a spirit comes with the message that the whole world knows that Ernesto de la Cruz murdered Héctor Rivera and stole his songs; the family asks incredulously how Miguel managed to prove that, but the spirit, a man dressed in work clothes and bearing red starbursts around his eyes, can only shrug. “The kid proved to Santa Cecilia a while ago that the songs were stolen. I died before anything else happened, though.”

They apologize somberly for his loss and send him on his way with a promise of a pair of shoes, the same as they have every messenger before him.

lll

Just a few months after Día de los Muertos, they get a call from the Department of Family Reunions—they have a new arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Which brings the timelines in the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead together; next chapter, we go back to Miguel and finally get to the point of the story--Mamá Coco's death


	3. Mamá Coco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time.

_(read on tumblr or[ff.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13023733/3/The-Marigold-Bridge))_

Miguel plays “Remember Me” for Mamá Coco every night after Día de los Muertos.

She always does her best to sing along—sometimes she can, sometimes she can’t. Every night, Miguel gives her a big hug, reminds her that her papá loves her, and goes to bed.

She doesn’t sing tonight, but she smiles shakily and hums snatches of the song as he plays it through, tenderly, just the way Papá Héctor’s songbook said to. Halfway through, the humming fades away, and, looking at her, Miguel thinks she must have fallen asleep during the lullaby, again. He looks down at his guitar and gently starts into the second part: “Remember me, though I have to travel far—remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar… Know that I’m—”

“—with you, the only way—” Mamá Coco’s voice unexpectedly joins in; Miguel looks up in surprise and freezes, fingers stilling and voice failing as Mamá Coco finishes the line. “—that I can be…”

His jaw works, trying to form words that stick in his throat as his vision blurs.

“Mijo? What’s wrong?”

He gasps, tears finally escaping down his cheeks; he almost drops the guitar but instead hold it tighter, making himself return his fingers to the right frets. “It’s—nothing, Mamá Coco. We have one more line.”

He keeps his tear-filled eyes on his fingers as he plays, “Until you’re in my arms again… Remember…”

He can’t, he can’t, he—he sobs through the final word and the guitar slips from his arms; the musical crash of it hitting the ground knocks him off of his knees and he sits there, hugging himself, trying to steady his own cries.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Miguel!” He hears Mamá Coco leap from her chair and then freeze. “Oh…”

He looks up at her once more; she stands tall before him—he can’t remember the last time she’d held herself so easily. Her nightgown and shawl hang off of her bones in nearly the same way they hung from her living body, which still sits peacefully in her chair.

She stares down at her hands in wonder. Gleaming white bones, moving easily.

“Miguel?” She looks from her hands to her great-grandson, looking heart-breakingly confused.

“Miguel, is everything alright? We heard a…” Luisa cautiously nudges open the door. When she sees Miguel huddled on the floor, she doesn’t hesitate to burst into the room. “Miguel! What happened?”

The moment she’s within reach, Miguel latches onto her, wrapping his arms around her. “Mamá Coco…she’s…it’s…”

“Mamá Coco?” Enrique, who follows Luisa into the room, looks curiously at Mamá Coco. All he sees is his grandma, sleeping peacefully in her chair—but a moment later, his heart drops as he realizes—“Dios mío—Luisa, she’s not breathing!”

He rushes to the chair and grabs Mamá Coco’s wrist, as Luisa gasps and pulls Miguel closer to her, holding his head to her shoulder as if to keep him from looking. He doesn’t try to.

lll

Freed from her deteriorating body and mind, Coco realizes quickly what has happened. She’d dead. She died in the middle of her papá’s lullaby.

She watches in sorrow as her family mourns. Though they expected it, it still hurts to watch her daughter collapse in grief, her grandchildren work so hard to keep it together for their mamá when their tears make their eyes shine. It hurts to look at the little twins and realize they won’t remember her as they grow older.

And Miguel…

No one can see her anymore. She learned the hard way that she couldn’t hug or comfort any of them. But—she’s certain that she was already dead when she spoke to him—her mind was so much clearer, then. And he responded to her…

Could he see her?

When the rest of the family has finally settled into bed for the evening, she walks the familiar path to Miguel’s room, marveling to herself at how easy it is.

She goes through the closed door.

Miguel sits on the edge of his bed, still hugging himself, staring at the wall. His face has dried, but his eyes are still red, his shoulders hunched.

“Miguel,” she says softly.

He doesn’t move. For a moment, she wonders if she guessed wrong. However, after a moment:

“Hola, Mamá Coco.”

“Oh, mijo…”

She drifts closer, sits herself down beside him. Finally, he looks at her.

“Everyone is going to be so happy to see you again,” he tells her softly. “Especially Papá Héctor. He’s been waiting a long time to give you a hug. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you to the bridge so you can…” He can’t seem to make himself say “cross over.”

Instead of responding, she raises a hand to his cheek. He doesn’t lean into the touch the way he normally would—she supposes he must know that if he tries, he’ll go through her.

“I’m happy for you,” he tells her, voice firm, but she knows him, she knows his tells and the way he speaks and so she knows that right now, he’s not trying to convince her—he’s trying to convince himself.

“I’m sorry, mijo,” she murmurs fondly. “I’m sorry I have to say goodbye so soon.”

He closes his eyes; a few fresh tears run down his cheeks anyway. “Don’t say sorry. It’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Oh, sweet child. She yearns to pull him into a hug, but she already knows the wrenching pain of trying and failing.

“It’s okay to be sad about this, mijo,” she says instead. “Saying goodbye is always sad, even if it’s just for a little while.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes watering.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

Coco doesn’t know how to respond, except maybe, “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be more; this was going to be the last chapter. But it...very much felt like it needed to end here. So the story will continue in another chapter.


End file.
